


A Touch of Destiny

by Dream_tempo



Series: The Definition of Human [1]
Category: Push (2009), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: I don't really do fight scenes, M/M, So I apologize if this is horrid, So random it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/Dream_tempo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's never met a Stitch quite like Stiles. He's never met a boy quite like Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf/Push Fusion-ish. Set after the events of the movie. In my mind, an X-Men like civil war breaks out among the "specials" and breaks them all down into factions. The Hale family wants revenge on the humans who subjugated them. Stiles, Lydia, Isaac, and Allison just want their names out of the Division database so they can disappear. 
> 
> I dunno. Just sorta happened one night. Might continue it if anyone shows interest. As of right now it's just a bunch of random headcanons. :P

 

Like practically every Mover you’ve ever met, he’s all brute force. Disciplined body, but not skills, not mind. They’re all so very unimaginative, throwing pulses with their punches, blasting blunt objects across the room to close the space, throwing you into solid structures. When he waltzes through the door, pushing aside the plastic sheeting with a calm smirk and stolid eyes, you feel like you can see every move he’s going to make. Technically that’s Isaac’s area of expertise, but his approach lacks a little… heat for this kind of encounter. You can see him usher Lydia and Allison to a back corner of the room, giving them both stern looks when they scoff, and afterwards they give up little fight.

The Mover raises an amused eyebrow when they leave you exposed, sizing you up— and from the way he rolls his shoulders, cracks his knuckles, bounces from foot to foot and chuckles—finds you… lacking. You give him a saccharine smile in return, flexing your fingers, and stepping slowly, foot over foot, sideways. He’s approximately fifteen feet away—two tables and ten chairs between you both. He rolls up his sleeves, wipes at his nose, and exposes the triskele inked, front and center, on his right forearm. He’s a Hale then, come to defend his territory. Should’ve waited for back-up.

In the space of a second, he drops into a half-crouch, adjusts his center of gravity, and throws a right hook, the air in the room sucking in sharply before exploding out from his fist. You take a breath, lick your lips, and leap, watching the technicolor halo bouncing off the blow’s edge and using it to gauge its radius. The blast skims right past, ruffling your clothes before crashing into the support beam just behind you, buckling the cement. Twelve feet.

Surprise registers across his face for only a second, only a slight widening of those sea-green eyes, before his features harden and he steps forward again, stance solid, unrelenting, as he pitches a roundhouse kick, followed immediately by an uppercut that sends a table tumbling end over end. You spin, balanced on a single toe, narrowly avoiding the concentrated spiral sent from the point of his foot, and drop, sliding, on your knees. The leg of the table catches your temple, tearing long and ugly, but low enough to keep from your eyes. Six feet.

He snarls, lips curling back from his teeth—feral. Sore loser you suppose. You take the time to smile and laugh, wiping blood away with the back of your sleeve, before you stand. “What’s-a matter big guy? Never played in the major leagues?” He bristles, visibly, but for the first time seems to register a hint of doubt. Too late, but still. Nice to see. “ ‘S okay. You still got one strike… Think you can hit me out of the park?” It’s probably time to let go of the metaphor, but hey, you’re having fun.

He punches out a quick three-step move before rearing back, roaring like the animal they’ve made him, and throwing both fists to the floor. It’s easy enough to dance through the three small pulses, all of them crashing into the mirrored ceiling at the end of the room, but the shockwave following straight through catches your feet, and as you jerk forward, you can see the triumphant sneer blossom across his face.

It last all of two seconds before you catch yourself on your hands and spring forward, artfully tumbling across the last of the distance. You stand at your full height, grinning from ear to ear, as his eyes widen and his face goes blank, inches apart. All you have to do is press two fingers to his jaw, tip it forward, to place a quick kiss, and then his whole frame tenses up. Black veins snake out from the pad of your index, outlined in a raw red, and spread across his body. His muscles start to seize and then convulse and he falls to the floor, gasping and writhing. He’ll be fine enough in a week, but still, you frown demurely and turn to pout at Isaac.

“But this one’s so sweet! Are you sure I can’t go a little easier on him? I mean, _look_ at this body. It’s practically a crime to damage such precious goods.” Both he and Lydia roll their eyes and step over the debris, heading through the now unguarded entrance without so much as a backward glance. Allison at least has the decency to hide a smile beneath her hand and pat you on the back.

“C’mon Stiles, there’ll be time enough for flirting later.” She peers through the plastic, waiting a handful of seconds before pulling you in close and biting her lip nervously. “Don’t let Isaac know I told you, but you’ll see him again. Sooner rather than later. He’s _seen_ it.”

Vibrating with excitement, you give her a hug before crouching down and running a hand through the Mover’s impressively soft hair. “Hey, hey!” You snap your fingers in front of his face to get his attention, and though you can see it’s hard for him to focus, he’s not gone catatonic yet. “Look, I—or rather you—only have a few second left, so here it is.” You try your best to smile gently despite the adrenaline coursing through every inch of your body, and lean in real close. “This was fun. We should do it again… Naked.”

You can’t tell if he’s appalled, but he doesn’t say no, so you take what you can get. With a final, somewhat patronize pat to the head, you stand, and pick your way after the others. If Isaac’s seen it, you know it’ll happen.

It has to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Isaac's a Watcher, Lydia's a Bleeder, Allison's a Pusher, Stiles is a Stitch, and Derek's a Mover. For anyone curious.


End file.
